What if the universe
that we're in is a book,
beloved, a favorite read
written out from within,
every word of it ours - oh,
only the slimmest of chapters
where we come in - but what if
that part is the favorite part?
Beloved, re-read time again? By
whoever has just popped out of
the house is on fire, now
what oh no please, put
it out, it is in the room
with the bookcases, study
or library, quite understuffed
and the shelves
have taken alight,
climbing up, and we sit
between pages, oblivious
on a table, a lamp. It
isn't clicked on, what with day
streaming in and the sirens shut
out by storm windows and screens,
as here by the easiest chair conceived,
there sits a beloved book. Not even quite
written through, but ready to end, or
to read.
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